


yoi tumblr fics

by winchilsea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Swap, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Multi, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchilsea/pseuds/winchilsea
Summary: A compilation of tumblr prompts and partial fics I've abandoned.





	1. viktor/yuuri age swap & role reversal

“Come on,” Viktor muttered, repeatedly tapping on his laptop’s touchpad. “Don’t beachball me now, I need this.” He closed his eyes, took a breath, counted to five, and then opened his eyes again. On the screen, the beachball spun round and round. 

“That’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth as he reached for his phone. “That’s fine. This is all fine. Technology is great. Technology is wonderful. Technology is—yes!” The tabs opened on his laptop, all twenty-seven of them, could be accessed from his phone. In hindsight, having twenty-seven Youtube videos loading at the same time was probably just asking for trouble, but what was he supposed to do? Open them one at a time like some kind of technologically impaired grandfather?

Well. That was exactly what he had to do now on his phone. Viktor thumbed the list up and down, all of them with titles like “FS 2010 GPF…” and “2007 WORLD…” 

He clicked on them at random, waiting a whole five seconds for the video to load and pop up, and admirably didn’t throw his phone across the room when ads played. Some he exited quickly after wrinkling his nose at the music. The rest he watched to the end, critiquing every step sequence and gesture in his mind. Every once in a while, he snorted and said to Makkachin, “I definitely wouldn’t have missed that jump,” and, “Isn’t that costume just awful?” and, “Hmmm. _Hmmm_.”

They weren’t all bad—in fact, they were more good than bad. Yakov wouldn’t have pointed him in this direction if he didn’t think there was something to be found. But none of them had what Viktor was looking for, what he lacked.

“You have the technically ability, Vitya,” Yakov had lectured, “in that aspect you’re a genius. But we both know that what you’re lacking is an emotional connection.” 

Yakov was right of course. Viktor already knew that something fundamental was missing from his performances. He had it all there inside his head, but when it came time to skate he just couldn’t reach for it, couldn’t make any of it feel authentic.

Sighing, Viktor pressed his face into Makkachin’s fur and looked desolately at his phone. Half the videos remained, but the lack of results drained his motivation. He stared at the still of the 2011 NHK Trophy gold medalist, wondering if this was the end of his pro-skating career. Already twenty-three, only one gold in the Grand Prix Final and a scattering from other competitions, fewer as time went on, just another skater who plateaued after leaving juniors. He was so close. He just needed one thing to push him to the top. _One thing_ , and he could surprise the entire world.

Makkachin sneezed, his entire body shaking with it, and Viktor laughed, pulling away from Makkachin. 

“Makkachin,” he said, squishing the dog’s face between his hands, “would you still love me if I quit figure skating to become a friendless hermit?” In response, Makkachin shook out of his grip. “You’re right, you’re right. I’d have you as my one friend. It’ll be us—” 

Viktor blinked, turning to look at his phone where he’d forgotten it. A video played on the screen, tinny piano music drifting out of the speakers. “Ah,” he said, picking it up, “I probably clicked on a video by accident.”

He meant to close it. He wasn’t even sure what it was, but it looked old. Blurry, before everything came in 1080p HD. He meant to close it, but the controls faded away as he continued to watch the video, mesmerized by what he saw on screen. The video was too blurry for him to clearly make out the skater’s expressions, but something about the way he _moved_ —Viktor wanted that. Viktor _needed_ that. 

The music was uplifting, almost thrilling when the drums and strings entered, but everything about the way the skater moved screamed melancholy, like saying goodbye to fond memories. By the end of the video, Viktor felt breathless, heartbeat rapid as though he had been the one to skate. A few bouquets were being thrown onto the ice when Viktor tapped on the screen and carefully dragged the video all the way back to the beginning. 

He watched it three times before he finally exited the video to read the title: “2011 NHK TROPHY YUURI KATSUKI FS.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor murmured, thumb hovering over the name. He took a breath, the name rattling in his memory, and repeated, “Yuuri Katsuki?” Was it three years ago? Quebec—no, Beijing? He remembered catching glimpses of a skating program as he was giving his interview, almost like stop-motion. His gaze had kept wandering until Yakov shook his shoulder and Viktor’s attention snapped back to the reporter in front of him.

_(A warm hand and soft, soothing laughter.)_

Decision made, he reached for his laptop—still beachballing—and force quit everything and shut it down before restarting it. His knee jumped impatiently, and the second he was able, Viktor googled Yuuri Katsuki.

There were other videos of his skating programs. He watched one, frowned at the missed jumps and falls, but the spark that he saw still remained. He read through informal bios and the Wikipedia page. Retired, they all said. Early career, senior debut,  seasons all divided neatly by year. Personal life: a few sparse details about his family. Born and raised in Hasetsu, Japan. Things he already knew—or once knew—from looking him up three years ago, back when Viktor obsessed over his competition and thought Yuuri Katsuki would be someone to look out for. 

Viktor moved as though underwater, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, a suitcase half-filled, an email open on his phone to confirm his flight.

“This is stupid,” he told himself, folding up another sweater. “You don’t even know Japanese.” He got up and went to the bathroom to grab his skin care supplies, dumping them all in a plastic resealable bag. “He might have moved somewhere else.” He put Makkachin’s favorite toy into his carry-on. “Hasetsu is probably a huge city, and you’ll never find him.”

The next morning he was on a plane to Japan with only a single text to Yakov:  _Pursuing inspiration!!!_


	2. viktor/yuuri fake dating

It starts with one photo taken at the wrong angle, escalates with the full force of living legend Viktor Nikiforov’s PR team, and somehow concludes with this: Yuuri, shuddering against the door, hands clasped over his mouth, not sure if he’s being undone by his anxiety or embarrassment or _both_. 

(It’s probably both.)

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and Yuuri can’t read his tone at all. Is he angry? Tired? Annoyed? “It’ll be more comfortable on the bed.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to say _don’t touch me right now_ , but Viktor is on the far side of the room, practically pressed up against the windows. He is very, very carefully not looking at Yuuri. 

“What’s it like to be dating Viktor Nikiforov?” reporters ask him, and Yuuri miraculously manages to smile and say a line about how thoughtful and kind Viktor is every time. The real answer is that Yuuri wouldn’t know because they’re _not dating_. But it’s been half a year since they’ve started holding hands in public—the question was bound to get old eventually.

Today, they asked Yuuri, “Are you ready to start competing against your boyfriend next season? What are your plans? Has dating Viktor improved your skating?” 

They didn’t really ask the last one, but they might as well have with all their implications about attention and private practices. The fact that it doubled as an innuendo was just a bonus.

Viktor’s been asking the same questions too—except he doesn’t ask, he just assumes. It sums up about the entirety of their agreement, really. Viktor just makes assumptions and Yuuri is helpless to correct him. By the time Yuuri even found out about the photo, Viktor had already stood before a crowd of reporters at his home rink, winked, and said, “Yes, that’s my boyfriend, Japan’s top skater Yuuri Katsuki.”

The world blurs a little at the edges as Yuuri unsteadily gets to his feet. He takes four quick strides to collapse face first on the bed, taking in deep, ragged breaths when his vision goes black for two seconds. It’s too much at once—it’s been too much for months now, but Yuuri’s kept going with this farce because he’s only human, and there are only so many options a person has when their idol asks to date, even if it’s only pretend.

(Hint: There's only one option, and that's to _go along with it_.)

When he can feel his hands and cheeks again, Yuuri turns over, readjusting his glasses to look at Viktor who still, still hasn’t moved at all. 

“Viktor—”

“You should sleep,” Viktor says, unfolding and refolding his arms. “Get some rest.”

Viktor’s tired of this too, Yuuri realizes. He’s been selfishly holding on to this, trying to prolong the time he has with Viktor. He hadn’t even considered whether Viktor wanted to continue with the farce. 

Lately their interactions have been distant—where Viktor used to be so physically present before, there’s only empty spaces. Gaps that separate them by inches when before Yuuri couldn’t go anywhere without Viktor attached. Maybe Viktor has been preparing to bring things to an end. It’s a good time. The press will love the story, and it’ll tie in with Viktor’s theme this season. He’d told Yuuri, once, that the core of it was about heartbreak.

Tomorrow, Yuuri decides. _Tomorrow I’ll talk to him and we’ll fake break up and—_

Yuuri knows how that train of thought goes. He’s had it before. He’s had it since day one, and it’s been circling around and around, and he keeps telling himself tomorrow I will let go of Viktor. 

He grips the sheets, takes a breath. “We should break up,” he says in a rush. 

Yuuri’s not sure how to describe Viktor’s reaction—if it were possible to stumble while standing still, then that’s what Viktor does. 

“Yuuri,” he says slowly, finally turning his head to look at him, “what are you saying?” Viktor’s eyes are blue. This is a fact that Yuuri knows, he’s had those eyes staring at him from various angles growing up, posters all over his bedroom wall and prints framed on his desk. But posters are edited, and the blue of Viktor’s eyes always changed. 

He should have known that they’d just as multifaceted and inconstant in person too. There’s always something new.

“Fake break up,” Yuuri hastily clarifies. “For the press.” When Viktor doesn’t say anything, Yuuri starts to babble. “It’s about time, right? You said it would only take a few months for the attention to go away, and it hasn’t, but the Grand Prix Final is next and you—your theme,” he finishes in a whisper, choking on the words. _Heartbreak._

“For the press,” Viktor repeats. The rest of Yuuri’s spiel he ignores entirely. “Is that—never mind. We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning.”

“I want to talk about it now,” Yuuri insists, pushing himself up a little on the bed. 

“Tomorrow morning,” Viktor says, “when you’re not shaking.”

And oh, he _is_ shaking. 

“Are you okay now?” Viktor asks suddenly, taking an aborted step toward the bed. “Will you be okay if I come closer?”

_Viktor is thoughtful and kind_ , Yuuri tells reporters when they ask, and he’s never lying. “Yes,” he says with a nod, and Viktor immediately climbs onto the bed to draw Yuuri into a hug.

“I wanted to hug you earlier, but after last time I knew you’d rather have your space,” Viktor says into the junction of Yuuri’s shoulder. “I wanted to hug you so badly.” It’s almost a whine, and Yuuri thinks—wishfully, hopefully, impossibly—that Viktor might actually be pouting, that he’s sincere about wanting to be close to Yuuri.

It’s not that he thinks Viktor is lying, he just gets the sense that Viktor exaggerates things from time to time.

Still, he pats Viktor on the arm and says, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Viktor says, pulling away. He starts fussing around, and within minutes he has them both under the blanket, Yuuri somehow stripped down to his shirt and boxers—pants and shoes thrown against the wall. He heard the thumps, one following the other in quick succession. “Try to sleep,” Viktor says, removing his glasses for him.

The lamp gets switched off, but Yuuri doesn’t close his eyes. There’s inches of space separating him and Viktor on the bed. Viktor has already curled up on his side, away from Yuuri.

This is the last night. Tomorrow, he’ll end it and then Viktor will go the Barcelona for the Final. Yuuri will return to Hasetsu, back his ordinary life, where he can ponder about the future of his skating career in peace and quiet. But tonight, this last night—it’ll be the last time, so it’s alright if he continues to be selfish, isn’t it? One last time, a final indulgence. 

Yuuri swallows, listening to the sound of Viktor’s breathing in the darkness. The rustle of blankets, disproportionally loud in the stillness of the hotel room, almost unnerves him, but Yuuri wants this. He’s always wanted this: holding Viktor like this, chest against back. Viktor accommodates him after a split-second, letting Yuuri tuck himself against him without saying a word. Viktor’s hand comes to rest on top of Yuuri’s, and he wants to cry.

_You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hold onto,_ Yuuri thinks, lips pressed to the collar of Viktor’s shirt. _Tomorrow, I’m going to let you go._

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://winchilsea.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/mountliang)!


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